


Too Close to Slipping Away

by a_loquita



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Angst, Apocalypse, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-01
Updated: 2008-12-01
Packaged: 2017-10-24 07:46:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/260834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_loquita/pseuds/a_loquita
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is technically a sequel to <a href="http://a-loquita.livejournal.com/29786.html">The Things You Leave Behind</a> but all you need to know is that Sam and Jack are stuck off-world, alone, with no home to return to. Instead of the circumstances making things simpler between them, they are struggling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Close to Slipping Away

**Author's Note:**

> Fic for [](http://sjhw-tolerance.livejournal.com/profile)[**sjhw_tolerance**](http://sjhw-tolerance.livejournal.com/) congrats on the big win! Also, thank you [](http://la-tante.livejournal.com/profile)[**la_tante**](http://la-tante.livejournal.com/) for your beta work.

  
I can hear her thinking. Over-thinking.

“Carter.”

She sighs before she replies, “What?”

I pushed the beds together three nights ago, but other than that…nothing. Neither of us has touched the other and neither of us has spoken about it. At first, I assumed that Carter was still mad from our fight. It wasn’t technically a fight, but I almost made her cry and somehow that feels like it should count as a fight.

And now _I’m_ over-thinking.

I state, “I can’t sleep when you do that.”

“What?”

“You’re thinking about stuff.” After a long pause, I add, “You’re thinking about me.”

“That’s awfully presumptuous.”

But I know I’m right and not because there’s no other person here for her to think about. Because she didn’t immediately follow it up with a long-winded explanation of some theory or calculation she’s been working on in her head. Or the fact that the water wheel needs some work. Or she left the stove on. So, we both lie there—over-thinking, knowing that the other one knows, but neither of us is willing to give.

The bugs that are three stories below us make soft sounds in the night. It’s not disturbing if you think of it like ocean waves or something else calming like that. It’s only creepy when you realize that’s the sound they make when they’re mating, and that’s not an image I need right now… all things considered.

It has to be me; I know it. I have to make this right by doing all the building up and knocking down. Problem is, I’m not sure which to do first. It’s all so complicated. How can I want her this badly, and at the same time it’s so damn difficult? Then again, I shouldn’t be surprised; we’ve always sucked at the easy stuff.

“OK,” I say, “let’s just do it.” Simple. Easy.

Until she gets out of bed and grabs her pillow.

“What?” I ask.

I can feel her considering me in the dim light as if I’m some kind of weird alien bird that’s just landed in front of her, one that maybe she’s considering hunting to extinction.

As she turns away, I plead, “Come back to bed.” It must be the honesty in my voice, because she puts the pillow down again and climbs back under the covers.

“Why do you always have to make everything so damn…?” She trails off, but I pretty much get her point already.

“I don’t know.”

It’s just who I am. She knows that. She’s always known that. Why it’s a surprise now is perhaps the bigger question, but I don’t dare ask it.

Sam’s lying on her back, staring up at the thatched roof held above our heads by half a dozen support beams. To my surprise, we’ve discovered those support beams are strong enough that no walls are needed in this weird construction. The aliens who used to live here knew something, something I find completely baffling.

Without walls, the night breeze that makes its way at will into our bedroom is cool enough to necessitate a blanket but not cold enough to need anything more. Sam’s wearing a long t-shirt; it’s the same thing she’s worn to bed every night since we got here. But for the first time, I wonder if she’s got anything else on underneath.

She’s stiff and tense as I move my hand over her belly then trace a finger down to the edge of the t-shirt.

“Sam,” I whisper. She doesn’t reply. She doesn’t move. She just waits. She’s been waiting so long I’m pretty certain she’s forgotten how to be anything with me other than reactive.

My finger moves along the edge, where the t-shirt meets her thigh. I lean closer and place a kiss on her temple then another at the corner of her mouth. One of my legs moves of its own volition, curling itself over her shin and ankle.

“Sam,” I whisper again. I understand her doubting that I actually mean it this time. I get her instinct to wait and observe, maybe hypothesize about the rate at which this is about to crumble at her feet. Again.

I understand her hesitation, but I do need something here from her. Something to convince me I’m not lost in one of my dreams, back in the old days, when I’d wake wrapped around a pillow, knowing that some things can only be built in dream worlds.

Sam doesn’t say a word but turns to look at me for a moment. Then she tips her head and kisses me on the lips.

We’ve kissed a few times, more often than not due to some kind of alien intervention, so this shouldn’t shock me the way it does. When the kiss finally comes to a close, I realize the leg I have hooked over hers has moved, and in the process, nudged her legs apart. If she ever asks, I’m going to claim that was my strategy all along.

The hand that was resting on her thigh, toying with the edge of the t-shirt, now slides underneath and drifts along her flesh until it meets the edge of her panties and goes beyond. I smile. The cotton catches under my work-worn fingers. I like that, but it seems even better for her. Her hips lift up off the bed in rhythm with what my fingers are doing to her and wetness begins to leak through the fabric.

I kiss her again and start to take off our clothes. Sam’s watching me, her eyes wide now, as if she can’t believe what she’s seeing, so she’s trying to take in a panoramic view in order to analyze all sides of it.

When I finally sink inside of her, she gasps a little and then says the first words since I began to touch her.

“No regrets, Jack.”

It wasn’t a question, but I answer anyway. “Not even one.”  
   



End file.
